


The Choice

by Ruger9



Category: The A-Team (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-10-10 03:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20521172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruger9/pseuds/Ruger9
Summary: An injured Hannibal struggles with reality, dreams and the memories of a team almost destroyed by the horrors of the POW camp and the terrible choices that were made. This is a story of their escape from the POW camp, and involves the whole team.





	1. Chapter 1

** Chapter 1 **

Prologue

Fire radiated from the .38 caliber hole in his leg. Goddamn Stockwell. Nothing like faulty “intelligence” to make a plan unravel on a suicide mission. The makeshift tourniquet didn’t stem the blood flow. His vision swam as he looked at BA and Face, unconscious on the floor of a South American jungle prison. Stay awake, Colonel! The wound in Face’s abdomen would kill him if Hannibal didn’t apply pressure; it might kill him anyway. He hoped Murdock could find a way to free them in time. 

Heart racing, he fought back the panic and focused on the wound. Something deep in his subconscious flickered to life at the sight of the blood - something he couldn’t quite reach and didn’t want to. He floated between waking and sleep, unable to stay tethered to the present as pieces of his life drifted in and out. Regrets…mostly regrets. His men - How would they fare without him, if they lived? Maggie – He had wanted to spend his life with her after his pardon. Would she even know he died? And Face – Did Face know how he felt? How Hannibal considered him a son? The pride he felt? Reality slipped away into snippets of his past mixed with fears and dreams. Hurry, Murdock…hurry…….

November 28, 1971, POW camp, Laos, Just over the North Vietnam Border

“Fuck you Chou! Oh, and your mother wears combat boots.” Face warmed to the sound of Hannibal’s weak voice even as he shuddered when his friend hit the cage floor. It meant he was alive...for now. He faced the bars like a coward; he couldn’t stand the sight of Hannibal’s bloodied back, cut up like chopped meat by one of General Chou’s infamous bamboo cane beatings.

He suddenly couldn’t breathe. Each time they took Hannibal, Face envisioned his best friend, face contorted as he died from internal injuries, doubled over and coughing up blood. _Please not today. _ He took in a deep lungful of air, then another, to quell his nausea at what he would see and smell. When ready, he turned to face reality.

“You know, Captain, one day you _will_ regret insulting me.” Chou spoke impeccable English.

“Well, since you don’t feed us, I’ll insult you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Fun _and_ nutritious,” Hannibal grinned weakly.

Face expected nothing less than bravado from Hannibal, despite his obvious suffering.

“Mark my words Captain,” Chou said, smug as he turned and walked calmly away. Although the Laotian Pathet Lao ostensibly ran the camp, the North Vietnamese Army pulled the strings, as evidenced by Chou and his NVA goons.

Face waited, shaking, until he regained some control. “Jesus, Hannibal. Do you want to get yourself killed? Because if not, you’re doing a great job of pretending,” Face spat, then relented as Hannibal convulsed, the effects of his injuries taking over. “Glacier!” Face’s voice trembled as he called their medic.

Largely silent during their captivity, Murdock spoke up, his voice grim. “Face is right, Hannibal. Every time you bait Chou, he ignores us and goes after you. You’re going to die pretty soon.” 

“That’s the idea. They go for me, I’ve done my job.” Hannibal struggled to speak. In the first few weeks, each of them encountered Chou’s torture, experiencing the physical and emotional scars from his bamboo cane and other sick methods. Now, Chou only took Hannibal. “Look, Glacier, if I die…”

Glacier cut him off. “I’ll watch over the team. But not as well as you, so don’t die, OK?” Glacier sounded resigned.

Hannibal smiled as his eyes closed. Relief flooded Face; Hannibal needed the sleep. He hoped they wouldn’t come back before Hannibal recovered. 

Glacier growled as he tended Hannibal’s injuries. “They caned him pretty good. I’m barely seeing skin, just raw flesh.” Glacier’s eyes met Face’s. “His previous injuries were already infected.”

Face smelled the rotting flesh, what Glacier called ‘necrotic tissue’. It reeked of impending death.

“What about the fever?” Face’s voice broke. “He had a low-grade fever before they yanked him.”

Glacier shook his head, “He’s burning up now.” 

Face’s insides constricted. Damn Hannibal and his heroic urges. That bastard Chou wouldn’t kill the only man to treat him as a son. Face would make himself a lightning rod for Chou’s anger. Maybe then his CO could heal.

November 29, 1971, POW camp, Laos, Just over the North Vietnam Border

“He ain’t awake yet,” BA growled, using his large frame to block the cage gate. “Leave him be!”

Helpless, Face watched one of Chou’s guards hit BA in the stomach with a bamboo stick, doubling him over and leaving Hannibal unprotected.

Face’s hands balled into fists. “Hey asshole, when we get out of here, I’m going to cut off your tiny balls and shove them up your ass! Maybe that wouldn’t even hurt because they are really incredibly small,” his voice raw as he tried to goad Chou into taking him instead of Hannibal.

Chou looked at Face thoughtfully, as if he were weighing some terrible fate he might unleash if provocation were enough. “Hmmm, yes, perhaps you.” His tone scared the crap out of Face.

Not deterred, Chou gestured toward Hannibal. _Bastard is not taking him! _Desperate, Face gave Murdock an imperceptible nod.

Murdock understood. “I’ll bet his balls aren’t the only small thing. I’ve heard the Vietnamese have itty-bitty peckers.”

“And you. You’ll do nicely as well.” Chou laughed as if he had a private joke no one else knew. Face’s blood turned to ice. Murdock seemed equally unnerved.

Face saw red as the guard’s dragged Hannibal out of the cage toward Chou’s ‘torture chamber’. His fist slammed the bars. 

“Watch that!” Glacier scolded, then softened. “Look, I know you two are close, but breaking your hand won’t help.” 

Face acquiesced as Glacier examined his hand. Unable to confront his fear, Face stressed the practical reason for his anger. “Aside from _all_ of our feelings for Hannibal, he’s the only one likely to come up with a workable plan to get us out. If his brain isn’t functioning or he dies, none of us will get out alive.”

Eminently pragmatic, Glacier agreed. “Let’s just make sure he has a team to rescue, okay?”

Face nodded, his agreement hollow. His mentor and best friend slipped away as Chou forced him to watch. His feelings for Hannibal weren’t rational; Hannibal meant everything to him. He would stop Chou, even if he had to die.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author’s note: I debated adding an author’s note, but from here this story is a bit of a wild ride. For those of you who have read my other work, you know I am not given to fangirl impulses, so please bear that in mind. Believe me, everything has a purpose, and will meet up with canon at some future time. **

** Chapter 2 **

January 5, 1972 – St. Theresa’s Church Cemetery, Los Angeles

It was a blur. Today, the last month. All of it. God, was it only a month? To Ray Brenner, it seemed like a lifetime. It had been hard to concentrate during the ceremony, a considerable problem since _he_ called the salute. Each of the three volleys from the rifles seemed to go straight through his heart. Ray’s stomach clenched as he re-lived the hopelessness and regret when he had handed Leslie Peck the folded flag, her six-year-old son sitting beside her, watching wide eyed. Ray almost broke down; only the staunch control of a trained Green Beret kept him on course. Agony flooded him as he watched Leslie’s bravery in the face of this terrible event.

The expectation of ultimate death in the jungles of ‘Nam had not prepared him for this soul piercing loss. Maybe it was the years he spent living and fighting alongside these men who became his family. Perhaps it was the horrendous circumstance of how everything unfolded. Or possibly because there was no salvaging the team; from here they would go their separate ways.

Face’s blonde haired, blue eyed son drew his attention. How much would he really understand or remember of this day, or his father. Face only met his son for the first and last time on R&R when the boy was four. A hand on his arm drew his eyes away.

“You’re not Atlas, you know. The world is not on your shoulders.” He looked down at Trish, love of his life, concern etched on her face.

Ray smiled. “As the XO, it is on my shoulders. And for the record, I have more muscles than Atlas.” Ray lightened his tone for Trish’s benefit. Since he’d returned home, she had gone through everything with him. She never said anything, but he knew she saw the signs of impending exhaustion: His defeated posture, the faraway look in his eyes, and his terrible insomnia. 

Ray turned as Leslie approached. The Army had given her vague details of her husband’s death, as is common when the death occurred during an “off-book” SOG mission. She knew he died at a POW camp, but not how or where. Ray prayed she wouldn’t ask; he had no answers.

“Leslie,” Ray took her hand, smiling broadly. Leslie responded with a hug and a peck on the cheek.

“Ray, thank you so much for this.” She gestured at the mourners. “I know you are still recovering, so it means so much that you are all here.” 

Ray waved a dismissive hand. “If necessary, we would have crawled. Anything you need, please ask.” He almost broke down. “Face was my brother. Serving with him…” Unable to continue, he bowed his head until he recovered, then looked up at Leslie. “We take care of our own.”

“We’ll manage.” Leslie opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. Finally, she broached the sensitive topic. “How is Colonel Smith? I heard a rumor…I mean, I heard he isn’t well.”

Maggie Sullivan-Smith approached from behind, her voice strong given the circumstance. “His condition hasn’t improved at all.” Leslie, Ray and Trish turned to see Maggie approach, infant daughter on her hip. How does she hold it together? But then, grace under pressure was a trait Hannibal found most appealing in her.

“I’m so sorry Leslie. Hannibal considered Face a son. I know he would have wanted to be here,” Maggie hesitated, “But I’m almost glad he couldn’t. It would literally have killed him. He would have put a bullet in his brain.”

Did Maggie know more details of Face’s death than she should? Not surprising; she and Hannibal both had connections in high places.

“Tem thought of Hannibal as the only father he ever had. He wouldn’t want Hannibal to feel responsible. War is war. People die. That’s what Tem always said anyway.” Leslie played lightly with the baby’s hand as Trish looked on wistfully.

Maggie introduced her little bundle. “Meet Kaitlin Hannah Smith, Kaitlin after my mother and Hannah after her father.” The twinkle in her eye met Ray’s surprise. “I’ve only known him as Hannibal. It fits him so much better than John.” 

“She has his eyes.” Ray looked at Maggie’s eyes, then Kaitlin’s. “You must have blue eyes in your family somewhere.”

“Not for at least three generations. You know Hannibal, dominant in all things, laws of nature be damned.” Ray knew the signs; Maggie was on ‘The Jazz’.

Leslie changed the subject. “So, Maggie, Ray said you met Hannibal in Vietnam?”

Ray broke in as Maggie smiled. “Maggie was a doctor at the 12th Evac in Cu Chi. We got our butts kicked on a drop. All of us were injured, Hannibal most seriously.” Maggie rolled her eyes as Ray continued. “Typical Hannibal, he thought he was more recovered than he actually was, and tried to sneak out of the hospital several times.” Ray chuckled and looked at Maggie to continue the story.

“His men had warned me that might happen, so I was ready. The first time, he was surprised to find me blocking the door, arms crossed,” Maggie mimicked the motion. “He told me he liked the ‘fire in my eyes’. I think he hoped a little flattery would let him off the hook.”

Leslie smiled, “I hope it didn’t.”

“No, not that time, or the other six times he tried.” Maggie seemed proud of that.

“Hannibal said he loved that she stood up to him, _and _that she specifically requested a posting close to the action.” Ray elbowed Maggie playfully. “He found her most attractive when the VC attacked the base and Maggie grabbed an M-16 to protect the hospital.”

Maggie elbowed him in return. Suddenly, sadness showed in her eyes as Kaitlin began to fuss. “Time to feed her. Please excuse me.” Maggie hugged them and went to find a private place to nurse.

Leslie turned to Ray. “I’m trying to picture Maggie grabbing a gun during an attack to protect a ward full of injured Green Berets. I’m sure they were thrilled to have a female doctor as their guardian.”

Ray never forgot the glint in Hannibal’s eyes as Maggie loaded the mag into the gun and chambered the first round. “Well, some of us were happier than others.”

Leslie smiled, then became serious.

“Ray, can I ask you a favor?” He nodded. “Can you take me to the VA hospital? The two of them were so close; I don’t want to leave without seeing him.” 

“I doubt he will even know who you are.” Ray struggled to understand his friend’s condition. 

“I know. I just want to see him.”   


January 5, 1972, VA Hospital, Psychiatric Ward, Los Angeles

It was brighter than Leslie expected. Movies painted psych wards as places with dark hallways full of locked doors, screaming people and brutal uncaring staff. Here she could see doors, but the hallways were bright white and well lit, and the staff seemed caring and empathetic. Wendy, a short dark-haired nurse with a sympathetic smile, led them down several hallways to a door, which she unlocked. The dimly lit room seemed out of place; Leslie glanced at Wendy, who shrugged.

“He screams if you put on the light.” Wendy walked down the hall. “Call if you need anything.”

Ray looked at Leslie, but she shook her head. “I’ll go in myself.”

The unassuming figure sat in a chair and stared out of the window. His eyes drew her in. It wasn’t the window he stared at; it was something far away, in another place or time.

Frightened, she tried to find her voice, but managed only a whisper. “It wasn’t your fault.” No reaction. Tears fell down her face. “I’m sorry.”

Leslie ran from the room and hugged Ray tightly, sobbing.

“He’ll be okay,” Ray soothed as he stroked her head. “Shhhh.” He held her for a long time until her sobs subsided.

“Tem would hate this,” she murmured. “Seeing him like this, as if his soul is gone.” Leslie realized Ray had no answer. 

“You ready to go?” 

She nodded and headed toward the car; her heart ached. Ray was wrong, he would never be okay.

** **

June 25, 1970, Dak To Base Camp, South Vietnam

It was a bad combination: A gaggle of drunk Marines, and his buzzed Special Forces team trading insults at the base’s dingy watering hole. Certainly not a venue large enough to host a brawl. The three Marines at the forefront exhibited impressive size: One whose muscles resembled wrestler Killer Kowalski, another who had anvil sized fists, and a third with the demeanor of a joker, but the eyes of a psycho.

“Oooh, look at the tiny Army guys. Can you even bench 30 pounds? All together?” Killer taunted Hannibal's men.

“Thirty? Oh wait, that’s your IQ. All together,” Face gibed wickedly. Hannibal hid his smile behind a cigar.

“Pwease, don’t huwt me, I’m just a wittle bitty Awmy gwunt,” Joker added, doing a Tweety Bird imitation.

The Marine contingent roared with laughter.

BA slammed his fist down on the bar. Glasses shook and clanked together. “Hey man, you wanna know hurt. I’ll give you hurt!” Fists up, he jostled to get closer to Joker.

Anvil stepped in and drove his chest hard into BA, fists ready. BA growled as he blasted a shoulder into Anvil’s chest. Face and Glacier shoved roughly against Killer and Joker, who returned the favor. Challenge made and accepted.

LIke a film reel on screen, Hannibal could see the next few minutes clearly his mind’s eye: A fight, rife with broken bones, torn tendons, sprains, strains, and maybe even a concussion or two. They had a drop tomorrow.

He could stop it; a Lieutenant Colonel trumped everyone here. He held his forehead with his hand and moaned. Saluting was virtually unheard of outside of Saigon, much less calling an entire bar full of soldiers to attention. The last time Hannibal had to do it was when he and Glacier went to interview Face for the team. That had also involved the blasted Marines, he cursed silently. God, he despised this. He took a deep breath.

“Ten-hut!”

It was loud enough to freeze everyone in place. Save for his guys, every soldier in the bar stared at him, then snapped to attention. His team looked at him like he was from Mars. Hannibal’s glare at them shot icicles.

“I said ten-hut!”

They snapped to, resembling kicked puppies.

Hannibal eyed his men. “Team room, now!”

He hadn’t seen them move so fast since he made them do sprints during training.

Hannibal gestured toward the remainder of the patrons. “The rest of you, behave like you’re all fighting on the same side!” With that, he put a ten-dollar bill on the bar, grabbed a bottle of Scotch and walked out.

Hannibal entered the team room to cold stares, mollified only slightly by the sight of the Scotch and their CO’s broad grin.

“Oh, come on guys, I couldn’t very well let you get into a brawl the night before a drop, and I certainly couldn’t treat you any differently than the rest of those jokers. Besides, this will give us a little team bonding time.”

Face spoke over the symphony of groans. “Fine, okay, turn over the goods and maybe we’ll think about it.” He grabbed the bottle, opened it and took a swig.

“Well,” Murdock said in a British accent, “If we are going to do some bonding, I cordially suggest those of us who are normally less than forthcoming about their early years should, how shall I say it, spill.” He looked pointedly at Face and Hannibal.

Face expressed mock shock at the accusation. “Come on Murdock, you know everything about my childhood. I grew up at St. Theresa’s orphanage from the time I was five, kissed every girl there by the time I was 12, and got into lots of trouble while I …honed my craft of larceny and con. What else is there?”

Murdock’s accent continued, “You could tell us how you hooked up with that cheeky blonde beauty Leslie Bectall.”

Face sighed, “Murdock, you know how. Because I was an orphan, I got two years of college free through some charity…”

“Or scam,” Murdock interrupted, as he struggled to keep a straight face.

Face glowered at his best friend. “Charity. May I continue?”

“Of course, my good man.”

The other’s seemed to be enjoying amusement at Face’s expense.

“We took freshman English together. She helped with my…vocabulary. I took her out and fell for her like a lead safe.” Face sighed pensively, then became serious. “Fortunately, she tolerated me until I could sweep her off her feet and ask her to marry me. You know the rest.”

“I do know the rest. Like how she almost dumped you to become a nun,” Murdock quipped.

“Yeah, and how you left your new bride to enlist in the Army,” BA‘s laugh was a cross between a giggle and snicker. “And got her pregnant before you left.”

“She did _not_ almost dump me to become a nun._ Before _we met, she had been thinking about it,” he paused to look at Murdock. “But after I gave her my fraternity pin as a pre-engagement gift, she decided I was more important.”

“Than God?” Hannibal dove into the teasing fray.

Face’s eyes bore into his, then turned to BA. “_And_, I needed a career. I did have a wife and future son to support.”

It always started as banter, but Hannibal saw Face’s tell; he hated being the butt of an extensive joke. Bullying and abuse were part of Face’s past; Hannibal knew the signs. Face used humor to push back the doubt it caused, but he also fed off the attention.

Hannibal noticed sudden silence. His men appeared to be waiting expectantly for...what exactly? Their smirks made him uneasy.

Glacier grabbed his stethoscope and put it on Hannibal’s chest, “He is suffering from Daydreamus Maggeus.”

Hannibal rolled his eyes, thankful Glacier didn’t go into a detailed description of the condition. “Maybe if you told me what I missed…” He stopped to swig some Scotch, then handed it to Face’s outstretched hand. Hannibal sensed impending amusement at his expense.

“Before your mind left us, I asked a question. When are you going to marry Maggie?” Face took a swig of Scotch.

Hannibal grinned. “Next week in Saigon.” 

Face spit his Scotch out all over BA, who glowered at him dangerously.

“I mean, presuming she says yes.” Hannibal exuded confidence.

“What? You’re playing me, right?” Face stammered.

Hannibal lit up his cigar and went for dead serious with just a hint of ‘Jazz’. “Nope. In fact, I need an engagement and wedding rings, by Tuesday.” Hannibal paused for effect. “Oh, and you’ll be my best man, right?”

“You do know we’re going on a mission, right?”

Hannibal wondered whether Face was more skeptical about the impending wedding or angry that he’d dropped this important task on him with little time to complete it.

“Honestly, Hannibal, I never thought I’d see the day,” Glacier interjected, “But she is perfect for you.”

Hannibal grinned broadly as his voice became wistful. “Yeah,” he mused happily, “She’s great.”

“Okay, when is Allen Funt going to pop out and yell ‘Surprise! You’re on Candid Camera!’? Either that or your pod person is going to bring back the real Hannibal Smith any moment,” Face joked.

Hannibal laughed heartily. “Probably the latter. I know, this whole thing is unlikely. But it _is _happening. Can we change topics now?”

Glacier dove in with both feet. “So, what are you going to do when the war is over Face? I know Hannibal is career, and probably Murdock too. Pretty sure BA is going back to Chicago.” Murdock and BA nodded their assent. “I’m going back to Barlow Creek to run my in-law’s farm. You staying in or going back to LA?”

Face thought about it for a moment. “I think I’m going to rob banks,” Face said, his tone serious.

It was Hannibal’s turn to spit his Scotch and stare.

“Sure, I mean, really, it would solve my dilemma of what to do. If I robbed one over here, no one would know, and I could live the life of luxury I deserve.”

Hannibal gave him a stern look, his tone harsh. “Lieutenant, I sincerely hope you’re kidding.”

Face persisted, deadpan. “Oh, I have it. If I robbed one in Cambodia or Laos, well, I mean, we’re not even officially operating there. Who would link it to us? Or Hanoi. No one would even suspect we could get to Hanoi without being detected, much less rob a bank….”

“Lieutenant!”

“Gotcha,” Face smiled, “Surprise, you’re on Candid Camera.” Murdock pretended to roll a movie camera and point it at Hannibal. “That’s for dropping the ring thing on me with no notice.”

“Well,” Glacier interrupted, “Can you do your bank thing _after_ I leave? I don’t want to be a fugitive when I go back home to Trish, know what I mean? Believe me, I don’t need to go anywhere near Ft. Bragg again.”

Hannibal’s head swiveled to look at Glacier. “Were you going to tell me you’re retracting your voluntary indefinite status?” he asked, annoyed.

“I’m not yet, but yeah, I guess I’ve been considering it. I wasn’t going to say anything until I knew for sure. Sorry, that just slipped out.”

Hannibal sighed. “I guess I knew it was coming after you and Trish got married.” He clapped his hand on Glacier’s shoulder. “And for the record, that guy who runs that prison at Ft. Bragg is named Lynch. I played chess with him once. I check-mated him in 4 moves. You could escape easy. I mean, you’d still be a fugitive…”

“No thanks,” Glacier laughed, then looked around at his dejected team mates. “Come on guys, I haven’t pulled the plug yet, so we have lots of time to tromp around in the jungle and get shot at together! Right? Like tomorrow!”

Hannibal knew to wrap this up before the conversation sucked the morale out of the room. “All right, let’s get some sleep. Rise and shine at 0400.” Groans all around. 

Reluctantly everyone laid down, but Hannibal knew it would be hard to sleep. It always was before a drop, this time more than usual.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Maggie's wedding day contrasts the horrors of the POW camp, where Hannibal must make a terrible choice.

** Chapter 3 **

December 4, 1971, POW camp, Laos, Just over the North Vietnam Border

“What the heck was he thinking?” Face railed for the fourth time in days. Glacier sighed, his legendary calm tested.

“Face, we’ve been through this. Hannibal is used to being in control. That’s his ‘normal’ state.” Face groaned inwardly. ‘The professor’ often appeared when Glacier experienced extreme stress. Analyzing facts helped him stay sane. “Here, he has no control over his life, or ours. He can’t handle that. Giving himself up is the only control he can take."

"I get it," Face admitted. "You know, during a firefight I always feel like I'm in control, even though I’m not. The fear...It’s OK because I love the rush. Here…" He couldn't coalesce his next thoughts.

Glacier finished for him. "Here you are on constant 'Fight or flight'. Without an ability to flee, your nervous system is constantly at ‘fight’.”

It made sense of what Face felt inside; his nerves ratcheted up the minute they arrived. They still spun like tiny tops. “What about his fever. You said without penicillin, he would go septic in days. It’s been five.” What if he went septic? Imminent death. That’s what Glacier said. His hand shook as he grabbed Glacier’s arm hard.

“Face!” Glacier snapped, then closed his eyes and breathed deeply, tension visibly draining from his body. “Sorry, I…”

Face shook his head. “My fault. I’ve lost my mind.”

Murdock sat against the bars moping, his voice lifeless. “If they tortured him, we would hear him scream.” 

“He can’t scream if he’s dead!” Face spat, which caused Murdock to shrink back. Instantly sorry, Face apologized. He shouldn’t be acting this way.

“Hey, if Hannibal was dead, Chou would have dumped his body right here and gloated. So he ain’t dead.” BA’s tone put a stop to the conversation. The ensuing quiet increased their apprehension.

“Hey, movement,” Glacier said, pointing to the torture chamber. Face exhaled hard, as if he had been holding his breath for days.

It was Hannibal, looking surprisingly well, hands tied behind him, being led in their direction. Relief flooded through Face as the guards tossed his CO back in the cage. Glacier immediately checked him, then looked at Hannibal, questions in his eyes.

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Hannibal said, his voice steady. “They took me through the torture chamber to what passes for a medical hut. They tended my wounds, gave me penicillin.”

Chou behaved outside the norm, and Face knew Hannibal would consider that a threat. “Who can ever explain what these assholes do? In ten minutes, maybe they’ll take me out again. Or they’ll put me up at the Four Seasons. No idea,” Hannibal vented.

BA looked past Hannibal to an approaching figure, flanked by guards. “I bet he’ll explain it,” BA said softly. Hannibal twisted around to see Chou arrive.

“What, Captain, no clever word play? Maybe an insult or two for old times’ sake?” Chou baited. Hannibal’s eyes bored into Chou’s.

“Okay, your mother wears combat boots. Oh wait, I already used that one.” Hannibal didn’t smile, a fact apparently not lost on Chou.

“Captain, why the down expression? I thought you’d be happy to be back with your men. Don’t I even get one of your stupid smiles?”

Anger flashed in Hannibal’s eyes. “I wouldn’t have needed the care if you hadn’t ripped my skin open in the first place. And, while I’m thankful to not be dying, I’m suspicious of your motives. And as for insults,” Hannibal paused, “You smell so bad, leeches wouldn’t suck on you.” Now he grinned.

Chou looked pleased at his reaction, as if he had some plan and Hannibal inadvertently fell in line. “Well Captain. Enjoy your time together. It won’t last.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the team to process the threat.

They all looked to Hannibal, who stared at the ground. “I guess I’d better work on that escape plan, otherwise none of us will get out of here alive.”

July 4, 1970, Saigon

The day had been surreal: A proposal over breakfast, followed by a wedding in the early afternoon. She finally had time to sit and focus on her new life, and the family she inherited. Today, their interaction fascinated her. Maggie usually saw the team tense, focused, ready for a drop, or spent in its aftermath. A few times in Saigon, she saw their “I&I” personalities emerge. Even there, a soldier could die if not hypervigilant. Today, they reclined in their chairs, muscles loose, trading jokes and smiles.

Face caught her eye and picked up his glass, face beaming. “To the new Mrs. Smith! A beautiful bride.”

Maggie blushed and put her head on Hannibal’s shoulder. “Well, I have to say, Face, this dress fits like a glove. How on earth did you get my measurements?” Every team member snickered, even Hannibal.

Before Face could answer, Hannibal cut in “Face can tell you any woman’s measurements just by looking at them.” Maggie cocked her head, eyebrows raised. 

Face shrugged. “It’s a gift,” he said, smiling broadly.

Conversation and jokes continued between the team members, and after a point, Maggie tuned them out to view her surroundings. A holdover from the French occupation, the bright and airy restaurant flaunted fine furniture and even finer china. A row of huge French doors opened onto a private patio which Face procured for the ‘reception’. Maggie’s eyes wandered to the patrons inside and settled on a man who stared intently at her new husband. The way he looked at Hannibal gave her shivers, as if he was assessing the purchase of a new horse. When he noticed her gaze, he looked away. Maggie felt the blood drain from her face.

“Maggie, you okay?” Hannibal asked, voice taut. “Maggie!” he said more forcefully when she didn’t answer. Hannibal’s eyes followed the path of her gaze, his own settling on a man at the bar. “Maggie, who is that guy?”

Maggie couldn’t take her eyes off him. “Um…I don’t know. He scares me. The way he was looking…” The muscles in Hannibal’s neck and shoulders tensed.

“At you? Because I’ll make that stop fast.” Hannibal started to get out of his seat.

Maggie put a hand on his arm. “No, at you,” Maggie whispered.

“At me?!” Hannibal said, his voice incredulous.

“Yes, he stared at you, I don’t know, like you were something he wanted.” Her voice felt far away.

“You mean someone,” Glacier interjected.

Maggie shook her head. “No, some….thing, as if Hannibal were an object. I can’t explain it.” She shuddered.

“Anyone know this guy?” Hannibal asked his team. They all shook their heads.

“I know who he is,” Reverend Taylor said, his tone quiet. “His name is General Stockwell, but he doesn’t act like any General I’ve ever known. The way I hear it, he’s so deep into Spookville, even the Company avoids him like the plague.”

Face was the first to speak. “He’s got to know you’re done with that stuff. Why the cloak and dagger crap?” Face appeared unnerved.

At that moment, Stockwell gave another pointed stare, this time surveying the whole team, before he turned and headed toward the exit.

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” Glacier said.

Hannibal put his arm around Maggie until she stopped shivering.

“Don’t worry,” his voice comforting, “No one in grey civvies is going to suck me into any of their twisted dealings anymore. I’m done.” She gave him a weak smile.

Hannibal suddenly grinned and addressed the team. “Well, this has been fun and all, but I’ve got a marriage to consummate.” Maggie glared at him while blushing furiously. “What?” he asked teasingly, as he grabbed her hand and pulled her up from the chair.

“I guess we’re going.” Maggie rolled her eyes to avoid giving her new husband a deadly look. “Thanks for the great evening. I’ll see you all…” Looking at Hannibal’s face, she knew ‘tomorrow’ would not happen. “Whenever my husband lets me out of the hotel room,” she said, hoping her bravado covered the embarrassment. They all chuckled. Obviously, they knew him well enough to believe they would be in that hotel room for a week.

“Bye!” Hannibal said flippantly and extracted her from the restaurant. She looked back at them, smiling, and firmly put Stockwell out of her mind in favor of more pleasurable pursuits.

************************************************************

December 12 1971, POW camp, Laos, Just over the North Vietnam Border

Hannibal couldn’t escape the feeling, the gnawing worm at the back of his brain, warning him Chou should have made good on his threat. Two weeks with no torture, some surprisingly frequent scraps of food and water, and not one visit from Chou.

Hannibal’s team expected him to come up with a plan and he would. All the stars had to align, but when they did, his team would react instantly to his command. Most of his tenuous ideas required Chou taking him for torture. 

“Hannibal!” Face pointed at several approaching figures. Chou.

Hannibal instantly saw something different from Chou’s normal set of perverse expressions, which usually ranged from smug to sadistic. Chou’s eyes, somehow colder and more inhuman, were filled with the anticipation of something horrific. Hannibal’s instincts rarely failed him; his skin crawled as he swallowed his unease. 

“Well, well, well,” Hannibal goaded, “it’s been so long. You look different. Is that a new dress? Or did you curl your hair?”

Chou smiled. “The time for your insults is getting short, Captain. Very soon you will be writing that confession.”

Feigning calm, Hannibal stuck with the plan; he had to prod Chou. “I have plenty more insults I haven’t even pulled out of the bag yet, and if you think I’m signing that thing, you’re coocoo.”

Chou motioned to his guards as Hannibal moved toward the cage entrance. Chou laughed as the guards pushed Hannibal away and roughly seized Murdock and Face. Hannibal’s heart raced. They never took two. A thin thread of logic told him two is twice the enjoyment; this is a natural progression. But Hannibal’s mind screamed, _The threat! _Real. Deadly. Imminent.

The guards bound Face and Murdock’s hands behind them, then held them next to Chou. Suddenly, a small pistol materialized in each of Chou’s hands. Face and Murdock stopped struggling; their eyes widened as they stared at the weapons. As Hannibal watched the unfolding scene, the sound of blood pumping in his ears caused all others to fade. Somehow, Chou’s voice cut through. 

“Well, Captain. I said the time would come for the insults to stop and for you to sign the confession,” Chou gloated. It was as if he already had his victory.

Hannibal’s lungs constricted; he could barely breathe or speak. He prided himself on calm in the face of danger, but now a cold terror took over his soul.

“Whatever you want from me, I’ll do it. This is between you and me. Leave them out of it.” Hannibal fought for an image of control. “If you hurt any of my men, I’ll never sign anything.” 

Chou failed to respond, as if he heard nothing. Hannibal drowned in Chou’s silence.

Hannibal spoke his next words softly, as if raising his voice would bring whatever this was into existence. “You win Chou. I’ll do whatever you ask.”

Chou gave an evil smile. “You will. But first, you need to know the price of your actions, Captain.”

The world slowed. His team railed against Chou’s words, but their voices seemed far away. Chou’s was in perfect focus.

“Captain, a number of years ago, I had the pleasure of meeting a former commandant of Auschwitz.”

Hannibal’s panic ratcheted up. Anything the Nazi’s dreamed up must be abominable.

“He told me a story of a Jewish woman who he wanted for his bed, but she spurned him. The woman had two daughters, one nine and one seven. When the guards brought her children out, she realized her mistake, but it was too late.”

Chou’s eyes met Hannibal’s, drawing him into the sick tale.

“She begged forgiveness and said she would go to the commandant’s bed, but he wanted an example. He made her choose which child would live and which would die. If she failed to choose, both would die.”

Hannibal watched his men’s faces contort as the meaning of Chou’s words began to penetrate.

“The woman chose the older child, who she felt could withstand the camp. The other little girl screamed for her mother as they led her away. How terrible for the woman. She collapsed when they shot her little girl. After that her mind was gone, and her other daughter died anyway.”

The end brought dead silence as the team internalized the ramifications. Hannibal shook, his knees barely holding as he fought the urge to collapse.

“No begging, Captain?” Chou taunted.

Hannibal’s knees gave way, his voice barely a whisper. “Please Chou, I will do whatever you want, say whatever you want. Please don’t do this.”

“Is that your idea of begging,” Chou mocked. “Your face isn’t on the ground. I hear no pleading.”

Hannibal almost choked back tears, then let them flow as his face went to the ground. “Please Chou. Kill me. Do what you want to me. Not my men.”

Chou roared with laughter. “How little you know me, Captain, to think pleading would change this. But thank you. I enjoyed seeing you grovel.” Chou said something to the guards, who pulled Hannibal roughly up off the ground.

“So now the time has come, Captain, the time of reckoning. Which one will it be? Who will live? Who will die? Or both will die. You decide. You have two minutes.” 

Hannibal had no plan, no way out. Think! God, why couldn’t he think? A tunnel sucked him in, his senses hyper-focused on Murdock and Face. Murdock looked terrified. Face appeared to be strangely at peace.

Face began to speak, softly at first, then progressively louder.

“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

Dread filled Hannibal as realization hit. Face would spare him the choice, spare Murdock. _No!_ Hannibal’s mind screamed. _Coward! You’re in command! Choose!_ He couldn’t. Physically and emotionally paralyzed, he couldn’t decide. Helpless, he stared at Face.

“Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.” 

Face locked eyes with Hannibal and smiled. In those few seconds, everything passed between them: Love, respect, and gratitude that each was part of the other’s lives. Then Face looked away and kicked Chou hard. Chou barely acknowledged the impact, eyes still on Hannibal.

“I see, Captain, that you are a coward. You let your officer give up his life to save you a choice. Very well.” Without warning, the gun against Face’s temple fired and his body crumpled to the ground. The voices of his men screaming seemed distant as the world closed in. Something snapped inside, he started to fall, then everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: I must loosely credit the book/movie Sophie's Choice for the choice Chou presented Hannibal. While I have never read the book or seen the movie, I've heard the rough plot and based this last scene on it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team deals with the agonizing aftermath of Face's death and Hannibal struggles to find a way to save the rest of his men.

** Chapter 4 **

December 13, 1971, POW camp, Laos, Just over the North Vietnam Border

Darkness, panic, drowned him. Hannibal struggled to take a breath, then another. Voices, sobbing, the deep keening sobs of someone who had lost everything.

Murdock’s cries. Interspersed with whispers, “It’s my fault.”

Glacier soothed his friend, but the sobs didn’t subside. Painful memories returned in a flood as Hannibal’s brain made a futile attempt to take control. His heart clenched as he thought of Face. He hoped it was a bad dream but Murdock’s tears brought home the painful truth; it was a nightmare, a living nightmare that wouldn’t end when he woke up. Despite the pain, Hannibal slowly opened his eyes and tried to sit up. A strong hand gripped his arm. He looked up at BA with gratitude.

“It’s alright, Colonel. You be okay. Slowly,” BA advised.

Murdock’s eyes followed him. Hannibal tried to look away, only to see Face’s lifeless body dumped by the cage like an animal. A combination of murderous anger and boundless guilt consumed him. A voice interrupted his destructive thoughts.

“You’re a coward. You should have picked me.” Murdock’s words dripped with cold anger as he pulled out of his fetal position in a brief moment of strength. ”Face had a wife, a son. He did it because you were everything to him.” Face never hid his feelings; the bond he felt with Hannibal was stronger than any he had with the rest of the team, or his wife and son. To Hannibal, Face _was_ his son. Murdock lashed out because he couldn’t handle the truth; Face also wanted his best friend to live. 

BA cut Murdock short. “Hey fool, this is on Chou. How could Hannibal make that choice? Face knew what he was doin’.” BA looked directly at Murdock. “You could’ve volunteered, could’ve saved Face, but you didn’t.”

Murdock glared at BA, then Hannibal; his slumped shoulders showed BA’s words hit home. He curled up in a ball and whimpered.

Hannibal put his head on his knees and covered up with his arms. He closed his eyes to block out the world for a few more minutes, simply to think. If only he hadn’t insulted Chou at every chance. If only he had cooperated. If only, if only, if only. All the permutations of outcomes made his head split. He wished the physical pain drowned the emotional agony. He felt Glacier’s eyes on him, assessing his mental state. It was fragile, but he couldn’t allow the team to know that. Only his desire to free his men stopped his psyche from spiraling down into the abyss.

Hannibal’s mind wandered to the events directly preceding Face’s death. Chou predicted he would sign the confession. He probably would now to negotiate his team’s safety. Clarity dawned as his path became clear. He lifted his head and looked at the remainder of his men.

“I’m going to sign the confession,” Hannibal said quietly as he struggled to stand. He saw their shocked faces.

“Hannibal you can’t. It goes against everything…”

Hannibal cut Glacier off. “First, I’m going to tell them who I really am, that I’m a Colonel, not a Captain. What a prize to have a Colonel confess to war crimes, and one he damn well knows is SOG. I’m going to bargain for your release.”

Glacier and BA protested vigorously. Murdock stared at him, glazed at the thought of losing someone else.

“No! No way, no how. We’re not going to let you do this,” Glacier hissed, his normal calm forfeited. “He’s going to make you admit you’re SOG, that SOG was running ops in Laos. You know that right?”

Hannibal nodded solemnly. “I know,” his voice barely a whisper. “I also know that I am never going to let any confession see the light of day. That I swear.” No one asked how. If Hannibal swore an oath, he would see it through.

“What the heck are we supposed to tell the brass if we escape?” Glacier asked, frowning.

Hannibal knew Glacier would damn sure _not_ mention the confession.

“Tell them I made a deal for your lives. You don’t know what it was because I didn’t enlighten you. In the unlikely event I get back, they’ll start an inquiry and I’ll tell them the truth.” If he got back, he would be happy to spend the rest of his life in a federal prison. It was a spa compared to this place.

Glacier pressed Hannibal to reconsider. “How can we leave you here?” Glacier murmured, pleading.

Hannibal sighed. “Because I’ll order you to.”

BA made his move. “Hey man, we’ll just come back to rescue you and get ourselves killed anyway, so what’s the point?”

“I’m not going to sit here and rot. As soon as I know you guys are safe, I’ll try to escape.” Hannibal put up his hand to quell Glacier’s protests.

Glacier persisted. “And if you don’t escape?” 

Hannibal had to hit this home. He did _not _want a rescue. “We’ll meet again on the other side of the line, or they’ll shoot me as I escape. Either way, no rescue needed.”

“What am I gonna tell Maggie?” Glacier shook his head. “Or your baby girl?”

“The same thing you’re going to tell Leslie, and Face’s son. Their husband/father died serving his country and saving the lives of his comrades. Tell them they should be proud.” The thought of Kaitlin, the daughter he would never meet, ripped his heart from his chest. Maggie…He would never see or hold her again. The grief almost overcame him; he had to push it aside. His voice choked. “Tell them we love them very much.”

Glacier put his hand on Hannibal’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Face gave himself up to protect his friends,” Glacier said, his voice calm and low. “No one will ever know there was a choice.”

Hannibal looked down, unable to meet his compassionate gaze. “But there was,” Hannibal whispered, “There was, and I froze.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Glacier said softly.

Hannibal shook his head, eyes still downcast. “I’ll talk to Chou as soon as I can.”

Glacier and BA looked at each other, resigned. Murdock stayed in a fetal position; it was his last defense against the darkness. Hannibal watched him, and wished the darkness would sweep him away too.

December 14, 1971, POW camp, Laos, Just over the North Vietnam Border

“You wanted to speak with me Captain?” Eyes bright, Chou plainly reveled in his victory. Hannibal swallowed the urge to throttle him. It would get him killed and would not help his guys.

“Colonel, actually. For accuracy, Lieutenant Colonel.” 

Chou’s eyes widened, his tone giddy. “Well, _Colonel_,” Chou emphasized the rank, “You were right to hide that from me. I suppose you are here to bargain for your men’s lives.” Chou laughed. “What’s left of your men, that is.”

Hannibal used every ounce of inner strength to stay calm. Visions of hanging Chou upside down over a fire ant hill, face smothered in honey, helped maintain his cool. “Yes. I write the confession, you give them a chopper and send them on their way.”

Chou seemed to find this amusing. “Really _Colonel,_” Chou treated Hannibal’s genuine rank like a new toy. “I simply send your men in a chopper and they know how to find me? How to rescue you? Because after you sign that confession, you and I will become great friends.” Chou touched Hannibal lightly under his chin; Hannibal pulled away. Chou drew Hannibal’s face back toward him, his voice sultry. “You do know that pleasure and pain are just two sides of a coin. I can’t wait to show you.”

Hannibal maintained a neutral expression. Maybe Chou meant it or perhaps it was a tactic. Hannibal didn’t care. Either he or Chou would die by the end of this, maybe both.

Chou released his grip and began walking around the room slowly, ruminating. “You will, of course, admit that you are Special Forces, and that the U.S. military has been running operations in Laos in violation of the neutrality agreement.” Chou’s smug tone intensified Hannibal’s urge to kill him violently.

“Of course,” Hannibal agreed, his tone sarcastic.

“You will sign this before I release your men,” Chou instructed.

“Yes, but I am going to hang onto it until I’m sure my men are safe.” Hannibal spoke with feigned authority. He hoped Chou would not force the issue.

“I could simply kill your men one at a time until you agree.” Chou clarified he had the upper hand, as if Hannibal thought otherwise.

“We stay here, we die of malnutrition, or your torture methods. Being shot would be a pleasure in comparison.” Chou studied him, wanting him to waver. He didn’t.

“Very well, _Colonel_. However, I will not simply release your men. My soldiers will blindfold them and drop them south of Dong Hoi, close to the border. A few days walk will get them to Cam Lo. I will provide supplies, and a compass.”

“A few days walk? My men are starved, dehydrated and will carry the body of their comrade who _you_ killed in cold blood.” Hannibal’s anger and frustration got the best of him. “In this scenario, I only know you dropped them ‘safely’. I can’t know if they make it to a U.S base. Maybe you’ll have an ambush waiting for them.”

“Perhaps I will,” Chou smiled, his voice authoritative with a hint of pity, “However, it’s the best deal you are going to get. I suggest you take it.”

Hannibal waited for a moment, then nodded acceptance. He prayed he wasn’t making a mistake.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

“This is a mistake,” Glacier said forcefully. “You can’t trust this guy, Hannibal. He could be leading us into a trap.”

Hannibal’s shoulders slumped. “It’s the best deal I could make given the stacked deck. Here none of us have a chance. Look, I know none of you are in any physical,” Hannibal glanced at Murdock, “or mental condition for this. But you are _the_ finest men with whom I have ever served. If you were anyone else, I wouldn’t have agreed to the deal. I know you can do it.”

Hannibal surveyed the team. BA nodded, then turned to Murdock, who appeared to understand despite his faraway stare. Murdock and BA locked eyes, then Murdock nodded as well.

“When is this happening?” It was Murdock, who finally seemed out of his haze.

“In three days. Before I walked out the door, I convinced Chou to give you food and water to get your strength up. And he agreed to put Face in a body bag, in a root cellar to prevent…you know,” Hannibal winced as he said it. “Again, best I could do.”

Chou’s minions came toward the cage. Must be time to write the confession. Hannibal could almost read his men’s thoughts; would they ever see him again?

BA clutched Hannibal’s shoulder. “Hey man, you did what you could. For all of us. Even Face. We know that,” BA glanced at Murdock. “We _all _know that. It’s been an honor to have served with you.” Shockingly, BA saluted. Hannibal felt warm inside, if only for a brief moment. He returned the salute.

He turned to Glacier, who pulled him in for an embrace. “God, Hannibal. I can’t accept that this is the end. None of us will ever forget what you’ve done for us, how you kept us alive, well, and…sane. You’re my brother. I won’t forget you.”

Hannibal glanced at Murdock, who sat against the bars, knees pulled up to his chest, purposely avoiding his gaze. Knowing he had little comfort worth offering, Hannibal turned away and said, simply, “I’m sorry, Murdock,” then headed toward the exit to await the guards. He heard a strained voice behind him say his name and turned around to see BA help Murdock up off the ground.

Eyes downcast, Murdock walked toward him slowly, then embraced him. He felt the man tremble. Murdock spoke without releasing the embrace, his words disjointed. “I’m sorry…..It wasn’t....I had to blame…..someone. You...you’re always here...always. My brother...friend...gone. I can’t...can’t lose a….” His voice quivered. “Father...I can’t…” Murdock pulled away and turned his back, sobbing softly.

“It’s okay Murdock,” Hannibal whispered, then put his hand on Murdock’s shoulder. “You take care of yourself.” The guard yelled something in Vietnamese as he opened the cage.

Hannibal looked over his shoulder as they pulled him out. He had recruited boys. Now they were men, and more importantly, soldiers; the best the Army had ever seen. He would likely never see them again, but felt no sadness, only pride; pride that welled up from his core and into his heart. He blinked away tears. He knew they would survive. They had to.

**********************************************************************

He wrote the confession slowly, using a full three days. His men needed time to heal, and the damned fountain pen leaked every few sentences. That didn’t slow him, because the words Chou provided made him wretch every paragraph. They betrayed everything he fought for and would die for. _He_ would die, but not sacrifice his people. A flaw in his character, his leadership? As an officer, he should sacrifice anything. In the past, he would. Face’s death broke him. Not _that_ he died, but _how _he died, and his own part in it.

His ‘legendary’ Hannibal Smith iron will got him through the week. Secretly, his psyche wanted to curl up into darkness and never surface, to go somewhere unaffected by his loss. He couldn’t afford that luxury; he must safeguard his team’s survival. Mostly, he needed Chou to die. He definitely needed Chou to die. 

December 17, 1971, POW camp, Laos, Just over the North Vietnam Border

Chou provided Hannibal and his team peasant clothes. Naked POWs fostered a negative image of the NVA among the international community. Hannibal somehow convinced Chou that he should pack his own team’s rucksacks, ensuring his men would have enough food, water, and medical supplies for their journey. His own access to medical supplies was key. He secreted two vials of rubbing alcohol on his person using gauze and medical tape. He would need that later.

As expected, Chou refused Hannibal’s request that his men have weapons. Being unarmed in hostile territory wasn’t optimal, but nothing about this was optimal.

Hannibal watched from inside Chou’s office as the guards loaded his men, hands tied, onto the chopper. Although they expected blindfolds, they writhed in protest when the moment came. Chou’s men tossed Face’s body roughly into the chopper.

As the rotors turned, sadness overcame him. It was the last time he would ever see them, these men he had nurtured and loved, bonded to each other forever. The chopper lifted off and disappeared over the trees. He pushed the sadness out; he had work to do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As their NVA captors fly them toward the DMZ, the Team fights to stay alive amid the specter of a new threat. Hannibal fights a life or death battle against Chou and his NVA enforcers.

** Chapter 5 **

“The ropes are too tight,” Murdock vaguely heard Glacier tell Minion A. Giving them designations made it easier to separate them in his mind, which was curled up in a ball tighter than his body. Minion A laughed and spoke in Vietnamese.

[I don’t speak your pig language. You don’t know you’re going to die. Stupid American.] 

The words slowly penetrated his muddled thoughts. They’ll kill us. We’ll die. _Good, I’d rather die than feel this agony. _More voices. His friends. They didn’t speak Vietnamese. Did they know they were going to die?

“Hey Jack, the man said they too tight!”

Minion B slammed the butt of a handgun on his back. It almost registered in Murdock’s brain.

[You are so dumb. We’re going to gut you and pull your entrails out while you are still alive. You think you will escape.] 

His muddled mind processed the graphic imagery. The team was in danger, and they didn’t even know it. He had to warn them. He didn’t know if he could speak, but he had to find a way. His team counted on him to listen and pay attention because he knew the language. Closing his eyes hard, he concentrated and tried to remember, did Minion B speak English? He couldn’t be sure, but he had to find out.

“Your sister sucks pig penis,” he muttered, surprised by the gravelly sound of his own voice, let alone the words that formed without thought. If Minion B understood, Murdock would be on the fast track out of the chopper. Instead, both of the minions laughed and Minion B spoke again.

[I like that jacket. I will pull it off your dead body.]

Minion B pushed Murdock toward Glacier; both minions ignored their prisoners.

“They plan on killing us after you give the all clear,” Murdock whispered to Glacier and BA. They nodded imperceptibly. The plan was formed instantly, unspoken but known by all. Glacier would rely on him to disable the pilot and take control of the aircraft. They would take care of the minions. This was how his team worked - a seamless template executed by a well-oiled machine. _I have to do this. I have to….focus. Focus. Do the job. _

When the chopper touched down in the jungle, the minions removed the blindfolds and cut their hands free as the pilot powered down the chopper. Minion B held an AK-47 on BA and Murdock as Minion A brought Glacier over to the radio.

If Glacier hoped Hannibal would be on the other end of the line, he was disappointed; it was Chou. “Tell my CO everything is A-OK,” Glacier said, giving the all clear. Murdock watched as the team unleashed hell. _Do your part. Disable the pilot. Do it. _Glacier wrapped the cord for the radio receiver around Minion A’s neck and pulled until he felt the man’s trachea crack. This distracted Minion B, which allowed BA to snap his neck. _Now! Do it! _Murdock seized Minion A’s handgun and shot the pilot in the head. Murdock sighed in relief. He hadn’t let his team down. Now they had a chopper; their chances of getting home had increased exponentially.

They dumped the NVA bodies and climbed in the chopper. As Murdock powered it up and heard the rotors start to turn, his thoughts went to Hannibal. _He would be proud of us, proud of me_. The thought gave him strength in the bitter darkness. _I’ll get them home. I have to. He’s counting on me. _He fought the overwhelming urge to withdraw into himself. _I’ll go away later, to the darkness. _The fallout would come; it always did.

December 17, 1971, POW camp, Laos, Just over the North Vietnam Border

Once Chou read and approved the confession, he returned it to Hannibal’s quarters in an envelope. Allegedly accommodations ‘befitting his rank’, the tiny room had a toilet, a sink, and a bench that doubled as a bed. If this was what the NVA meant by RHIP, he would have remained a private. 

When the guards left, Hannibal removed one vial of alcohol from hiding. He took the confession out of the envelope and spread it out on the bench. He dabbed some alcohol on the inside of his tunic and put a thin layer onto the paper, eventually covering the whole document. As hoped, the ink smudged. As Hannibal pressed harder, the words became unrecognizable. 

Chou gave him the fountain pen and fancy paper so the document would appear grandiose, a move that played into Hannibal’s plan. Alcohol affected ballpoint ink on plain paper less effectively. His plan B to burn the confession after taking control of Chou was less satisfying.

Hannibal fanned the papers to dry and lessen the smell. Then he put the papers back in the envelope and sealed it. He allowed himself a smile. He promised his team the confession would never see daylight. He always kept a promise.

December 18, 1971, POW camp, Laos, Just over the North Vietnam Border

Hannibal glowered at Chou’s men as rough hands pushed him toward Chou’s desk. He staggered, as his tied hands tried to break his fall. Hannibal stifled a grunt as his hip collided with wood.

Throughout, Chou smiled blandly, his hands neatly cupped together on the desktop. He stood to face Hannibal, elation in his voice.

“Well, Colonel. You are looking well. You will look so much better on film reading your confession now that you are dressed and well fed.”

Hannibal almost laughed at Chou’s confidence. “First the all clear code. I need to know my men are safe.”

Chou resembled a crocodile ready to strike. The hairs on the back of Hannibal’s neck stood up. Tragedy normally followed Chou’s good moods. 

“Your man said everything is ‘A-OK’.”

That was the all clear, Hannibal knew it. Something in Chou’s tone struck him wrong. Chou motioned to his guards, who cut Hannibal’s bonds. 

“So, Colonel,” Chou said excitedly, “now is the time for you to read your confession on film. I will, of course, also provide it to a neutral international body in written form.” Chou’s men gave him the envelope they snatched from Hannibal’s quarters. Chou looked like a kid on Christmas morning, opening his favorite present.

Hannibal used Chou’s focus on the envelope and a coughing fit as a distraction to access the other vial of alcohol, uncap and palm it. With potential weapons scarce, Hannibal identified Chou’s knife as most accessible. If not, he could snap Chou’s neck, but would lose his bargaining chip.

Chou’s next move made his life easier. A pretentious man, Chou removed a long thin letter opener from his desk. Perhaps he thought it would look grand on film. The guards stood Hannibal beside Chou as the film rolled. Chou slit open the envelope and carefully removed the letter as to not damage his prize. He opened it and stared, at first not understanding what he saw.

Hannibal took advantage of Chou’s shock. He threw the alcohol into Chou’s eyes and grabbed the letter opener, simultaneously putting his left arm around Chou’s neck and the tip of the letter opener on Chou’s right temple. One good push and it would go straight through to his brain. Heart pounding, he backed them up against the wall so no one could sucker clock him from behind.

“Tell your guards to throw their weapons on the ground and kick them over here,” Hannibal yelled, then said more evenly, “Except that guy.” Hannibal nodded toward one of the guards. “I want him to hold the weapon upside down using his thumb and middle finger through the trigger guard. Then I’m going to drop the letter opener and he will hand me that gun.” Hannibal tightened around Chou’s neck. Power surged through him. “Make sure they know I can snap your neck easily if they get heroic.”

Chou barked out orders, and the men complied instantly. The gun transfer happened like clockwork.

Suddenly Chou began to laugh; unexpected, unnatural, and of concern. Ice formed in Hannibal’s center.

“Some joke I should know, Chou? What do they always say? Sounds better in Vietnamese?”

Chou continued to laugh.

“Oh Colonel. All this for nothing. You see, I never had any intention of allowing your men to escape. After they gave the all clear, my soldiers killed them and dumped their bodies to rot in the jungle. You have failed as a commanding officer, Colonel. Their blood is on your hands.”

Hannibal’s vision swam as he fought to maintain his grip on Chou’s neck. Dark fears danced in his head. He let his men down, their deaths his ultimate failure. His psyche careened toward the brink. The world closed in, but he pushed against it. Hannibal found a new purpose, to find his men’s bodies and get them home. He must kill Chou. Then he would embrace death. Blood pounded in his ears, then receded as his training engaged.

“Are any of these men pilots?” Hannibal demanded. When Chou didn’t answer, Hannibal closed his arm tighter on Chou’s neck, almost choking him. “Where are the pilots?”

Chou struggled to speak. “By the helicopters,” he squeaked.

“That’s good. Have one of these gentlemen key the loudspeaker and tell everyone in the camp you will be executing prisoners.” Hannibal didn’t want any uninvited guests. Chou complied. Hearing the announcement, Chou’s men looked at each other in confusion.

Hannibal nodded toward the closest guard. “Okay, order that guy to give you his gun. Remember, you are my shield, and I can shoot you before you or anyone else can get to me. Do you understand?” He again tightened his grip on Chou’s throat. Chou nodded. “Tell them!” Hannibal ordered.

Chou spoke to his men. Hannibal wished he understood more than basic Vietnamese, but they complied with the instructions exactly.

“Good, now take the gun with both hands and put it in front of you.” Seeing Chou obey his every command satisfied him immensely. What happened next would be more fun.

“Now, shoot every man in this room,” Hannibal instructed, “In the head.” He felt Chou stiffen. He told himself the latter command would ensure instant death. A voice deeper in his soul knew the truth; he wanted to see their brains on the wall. This should bother his conscience. Strangely, it didn’t. Like the Nazi’s ‘Just following orders’, these men were all complicit. A sudden adrenaline rush flowed through him. He almost tasted the blood.

“Now!” Hannibal commanded as he pushed the muzzle of the handgun harder into Chou’s temple.

“You can’t…,” Chou gasped, trembling.

White hot anger flashed through Hannibal. “Oh yes, I can. You killed my men in cold blood. Yours deserve the same courtesy. If you don’t, I will, and then I will flay you alive.” That thought caused another surge of dark power; he would enjoy that.

“Then you will die in your escape attempt.” For a brief moment, Chou sounded smug.

“My life means nothing,” Hannibal said. A cold smile played on his lips. “Does yours?”

Hannibal felt Chou breathe deeply and saw him pull the hammer back, but almost jumped when the gun went off. Blood spattered as Chou dispatched the first two. He thought the others would run. Instead they remained transfixed as if rooted in place, their pupils black with terror. Like a firing squad, Hannibal thought absently. 

Pleasure spread through him. Chou’s men experienced a glimpse of the horror Face and Murdock endured, and Chou got a small taste of the helplessness Hannibal had suffered. Now it was done.

“Drop it!” Hannibal ordered. Chou complied.

“Now unbutton your shirt.” Hannibal enjoyed the feel of Chou’s stiff body and his attempt to pull away. Maybe Chou thought he would rape him. Hannibal almost laughed. He might have done so if the thought didn’t disgust him. Besides, Chou might enjoy it.

Hannibal pulled Chou back hard against him, and renewed pressure on his trachea. “Unbutton it now,” Hannibal said, his voice calm but with an edge. Chou did as ordered.

“When I release my hold, you will keep your arms at your sides and look toward the door. Do you understand?” Chou nodded.

“If you try anything, you better hope I shoot you. My torture methods are more subtle, and so much more painful than yours. Understand?” Hannibal’s voice left no doubt he almost hoped Chou would not cooperate. Chou grunted his assent.

Hannibal’s brain buried the danger of releasing Chou, then pushed him away. Hannibal quickly placed the gun in his waistband. He pulled Chou’s uniform shirt down toward his elbows and tied the arms of the shirt tightly together, restricting Chou’s movement. Hannibal retrieved the gun.

“Now, we’re going to go over to your little radio, and you’re going to tell your pilot to prepare a chopper for takeoff. You and I are taking a little trip.”

“Where?” Chou could barely speak.

“To where your boys dropped my men in the dirt. We’re going to find them and bring them home. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the war in an American POW camp.” Hannibal allowed himself a brief grin despite his grief and anger.

“I don’t know the location. My men have not yet returned. They would need to show us,” Chou croaked.

“You know the proposed drop location. Take us there. I’ll warn you again, no tricks.” Could they locate the bodies? Hannibal’s fears surfaced. 

“Okay Chou, I want you to get on the loudspeaker and let everyone know that you and I are going to get on your chopper, and anyone tries to stop us gets a dead commandant.”

Hannibal keyed the mic with one hand, then used his gun hand to gesture toward the radio, a thin smile on his lips. Chou looked from Hannibal to the radio, then leaned in and said something over the speaker.

Hannibal knew his ignorance of the language spelled potential disaster. His pulse raced as they exited the building into bright sunlight. Momentarily blinded, Hannibal held tighter to his captive. All eyes were on them as they made their way to the chopper where two pilots were already seated.

“One pilot, Chou, just one.”

Chou gave instructions, and one pilot unstrapped and edged away from the helicopter.

“Now let’s take off.”

After brief words, the craft powered up and the rotors began to turn. Slowly they rose into the air and left the camp behind them. Hannibal should have felt relief, but a black pit lived where his soul should be. He did know one thing. He would crash the chopper rather than go back and die at that place.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Hannibal fights to survive, the guys fight to bring Face's body home to his family.

** Chapter 6 **

December 18, 1971, DaNang Airbase

Murdock bypassed Cam Lo and headed straight for DaNang. They wanted to accompany Face’s body home, and DaNang was a hub. Going to the source always reduced red tape. They discussed mounting a rescue, but Hannibal told them he would either escape or die trying. None of them doubted his sincerity or ability.

Glacier found himself in Major Bennett’s office, a small room in a building made of corrugated metal. Whoever thought that was a good idea in a place like Vietnam should have their building license revoked. The heat generated by the metal reminded him of the small metal cages Chou used as torture implements. The metal conducted the heat of the harsh sun, turning those boxes into little ovens. No one survived in them for long. Bennett’s rank afforded him some privilege; the room had an air conditioner. It also contained a government style desk, a chair, and a file cabinet. Aside from those items and a phone, the room was bare.

Glacier saluted when Bennett entered despite the normally lax discipline in forward areas. He wanted to impress this guy so they could go home with Face. Bennett struck Glacier as unremarkable: Middle aged, medium build, height, complexion; mostly bald with just a bit of light brown hair. Was that a hint of a southern accent? Georgia? Alabama?

“As you were, Captain Brenner. We’re all very thankful that three members of your team escaped and got home alive. Our hearts go out to you on the loss of Lieutenant Peck. Did I understand that Colonel Smith is still missing?”

“Yes sir.” Hannibal taught him to make the brass pull the information out rather than give up too much.

Bennett began to pace. “How did Lieutenant Peck die?”

Glacier shifted uncomfortably. He hated to lie, but Glacier promised to take the true story to the grave. “The camp commandant was a sick SOB. He didn’t like that we talked back to him, and he wanted to make an example of someone. Face…Lieutenant Peck knew Chou would probably take Captain Murdock, being a pilot.”

Bennett stopped walking and sat on the corner of his desk, facing Glacier. He almost appeared sympathetic as he nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard pilots are lightning rods.”

Glacier used this as momentum. “Lieutenant Peck and Captain Murdock were close, so Peck goaded Chou into making him the example. He wanted his death to matter, to save a member of his team.”

Bennett broke the brief silence that came over the room. “Very commendable. If everything checks out, I’ll try to make sure he receives a posthumous medal. Only a small consolation to his family. He has a wife and son, doesn’t he?”

“Yes sir.”

As if an idea suddenly occurred to him, Bennett stood and moved close into Glacier’s personal space. “How is it that Colonel Smith didn’t volunteer as ‘the example’?” 

Glacier's pulse quickened. “He tried sir. Chou wanted him to watch one of his men die. Like I said, a sick bastard.” Not really a lie. Just not the whole truth. 

Bennett tried to meet Glacier’s eyes, but Glacier assumed an at ease position and stared at the far wall. “How did you affect your escape and why is Colonel Smith not with you?”

This would get dicey. Glacier hoped Bennet didn't notice his sweaty palms. Thankfully, everyone sweated in Vietnam.

“Colonel Smith told us he made a deal with General Chou, who would release us, but keep Colonel Smith for some unspecified purpose.” Glacier knew that would not suffice.

Bennett’s deep frown verified this hunch. Glacier could see his neck muscles tightening. Bennett’s anxious and demanding tone put Glacier on edge.

“What kind of deal, exactly? What purpose?”

Glacier hated this conversation. Anything he said betrayed Hannibal. “He didn’t tell us the details, sir. Chou’s people gave us clothes, bound our hands, blindfolded us, and put us on a chopper along with rucksacks of food, water, and medical supplies. They flew us out to a location north of the DMZ.”

Bennett’s eyes narrowed. Glacier knew it sounded implausible. “Murdock speaks fluent Vietnamese and heard their plan to kill us the minute we hit the ground. We were able to get the upper hand, kill them, and take the chopper.”

“Very resourceful Captain. You’re a credit to your country and to Special Forces.”

Bennett’s muscles relaxed for a moment, making Glacier hope he was finished. He wasn’t. Unable to pull Glacier’s gaze toward him, Bennett walked behind him, his voice harsh and close in Glacier’s ear.

“However, that still doesn’t explain what sort of deal Colonel Smith made with the enemy.”

Glacier saw red. How dare Bennett openly accuse Hannibal! It took every bit of strength to remain composed. He felt his next words come through gritted teeth.

“As I mentioned previously, Major, he didn’t tell us, and no amount of questioning on our part could force him. He said he had never betrayed his country and didn’t plan on starting now.”

Bennett walked around to face Glacier and crossed his arms. “Based on your report, I somehow find that doubtful.”

Glacier clenched his jaw and tried desperately to stop his fists from balling, but remained silent.

Bennett arms moved stiff to his sides as he moved quickly in close to Glacier, almost nose to nose. “You must have some idea where the camp is, yet you haven’t suggested a rescue attempt.”

Glacier saw Bennett wanted to punch a hole in his story. Glacier wanted to punch Bennett. Surreptitiously, Glacier took a few deep breaths as he struggled to restore calm.

“He told us not to attempt rescue because he would either escape on his own, or die trying. That’s it. That’s all we know.”

Finally seeming to understand he would not rattle Glacier into revealing anything, Bennett sighed in concession. “Very well, Captain. I understand your team is revoking their voluntary indefinite status, and you wish to accompany Lieutenant Peck’s body home to Los Angeles?”

Glacier could breathe easier. It seemed they would get their way. “Yes, sir, if possible, sir.”

Major Bennett nodded, and stamped the orders he had prepared in advance. “Thank you, Captain. You and your team are heroes. Please convey my thanks to them, and my condolences.”

“Yes sir!” Glacier said, then turned on his heels with his orders and high-tailed it out of the office. Once he was on that plane, he would never see this country again. That was a promise.

December 18, 1971, Somewhere north of the DMZ, 

Tired. So goddamn tired. The chopper flew low to the ground over potential LZs and still no sign of his men. How could he live with himself if he didn’t at least bring home their bodies? Like a bad home movie, time seemed slow, choppy, out of focus. The urge to retreat into a safe space in his mind grew stronger. He fought it; he needed to finish this.

An act of will forced his brain to function. Fuel? Hannibal glanced at the gauge. Low. He felt the chopper rise. Why? They should be flying low. Disoriented, he saw trees below. Chou spoke, and the chopper lurched to one side. Unprepared, Hannibal flew out toward the ground. On sheer instinct he caught the skid; adrenaline fueled strength helped him hold on as the sound of his pulse pounded in his ears. Hannibal didn’t look down, knowing they were at a deadly height. The chopper flew low to intentionally slam his body into the tree tops. He knew eventually they would knock him off the skid.

Training kicked in. He needed to control his fall. Instincts engaged as he jumped down into the trees, where a flailing hand caught a branch. Hannibal clawed desperately to hold on as his will to survive took over. His eyes followed as the chopper flew toward the horizon. Shaky, his breathing shallow and rapid, he slowly climbed down the tree to the jungle floor.

Relief turned to desperation as he realized his situation. He had no food or tools, and the Vietnamese dry season meant little to no rain. Even rivers would be dry. Unsteady on his feet, Hannibal crawled on the ground, desperate to find the handgun that flew out of his hand to the jungle floor. It took an hour; it felt like five. The black steel felt good in his hand. Out of habit, he dropped the mag into his left hand and counted his rounds. Six for the VC, one for him. They would never again take him alive. 

December 27, 1971, Los Angeles

BA slid the car to a halt on the tree-lined street.

“This is the place,” Glacier said as he verified the house number. As he got out of the car, BA looked around at the pretty little homes, glad Face’s son would grow up in a nice neighborhood.

BA ran his hand over the white fence surrounding the house. “Never pictured Face as having a picket-fence.”

Glacier nodded, trying to hide a smile. “Maybe Leslie put it up after he left.”

BA hardly heard his team mate. The Army had given them the grace to break the news to Leslie. Two days after Christmas was a bad time to do it, but having lost his father on Christmas Eve, BA had made them wait. He knew the pain of associating Christmas with death; let Face’s kid have one more Christmas of hope and happiness. BA sighed knowing the kid would never have a Christmas like that again.

In their dress greens, they walked up the path to the house. BA’s heart almost burst as he fought tears. He could see the same emotions in his team mates eyes.

Leslie answered the door. Not understanding at first, she looked past them for her husband. Suddenly, the realization crushed her, knocking her legs out. BA caught her before she fell.

“Glacier, she can’t breathe, man. Help her!” BA panicked as Glacier came along side. Glacier sat her up and lifted her arms up to open the air passageways. Soon her breathing became steady.

BA noticed Face’s son hiding behind a pillar. “Hey little man, you don’t gotta be afraid. We won’t hurt you.” BA had a special voice for when he spoke to kids that put them at ease. The boy moved toward him.

“What’s your name?” BA asked gently.

“Michael,” the boy answered softly.

“Michael. That’s a good strong name. Can we be friends?” Michael nodded, then came close.

“Do you know my father? He’s in the Army too.” BA couldn’t answer, tears welling in his eyes. He pulled the boy in tight and hugged him.

Leslie began to sob. Michael left BA to go to her. “Its OK mommy. They know daddy. They’re in the Army too.”

Leslie pulled her son in, holding him close. “I know baby. I know. Everything will be okay.” She looked up at the team. “Can you stay for a while?”

Glacier answered, “For as long as you need. You’re a part of our family. We’ll never be far away.”

December 24, 1971, Somewhere north of the DMZ

How many days? He didn’t know. The thirst…that was all he thought about, all that mattered. That and the painful sores on his unshod feet. Hunger was never a problem for him. It wouldn’t take his mind off other things. Things he wanted to hide from. The bullet through Face’s brain, his body crumpled into a lifeless heap. The bodies of his teammates, friends, brothers rotting in the jungle. In his dreams they berate him, condemn him, “You failed us. You let us die. Why are you still alive?” Their families cry for justice, “You killed them. You should die.” He wanted to go deep inside himself, where his dead teammates couldn’t reach.

He stopped. Voices. Real, or more voices of the dead? He gripped his pistol, then briefly cursed his survival instinct. Can’t you just let me die? Let them kill me? Please. The voices grew louder. English? A patrol? A hallucination. He wanted to die anyway. May as well go for it. He gave a bird call and received the same in return.

A soft voice came out of the jungle. “Identify yourself.”

“Colonel Hannibal Smith. Fifth Special Forces Group.” His throat was so dry. Could they hear him? 

Suddenly he saw five of them. One held out his hand, which Hannibal shook, his own grip shaky. “Captain Jeffrey Carstairs.”

“Pleasure Captain,” Hannibal mumbled, before he collapsed in a heap, thankful the darkness finally overtook him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All loose ends are resolved as the story comes to a conclusion.

** Chapter 7 **

December 12, 1981, St. Theresa’s Cemetery, Los Angeles

“Templeton Peck was like a son to me,” Father Michael O’Malley said, tears in his eyes. “Every year we gather here to remember him, and it doesn’t get easier.” Father O’Malley looked at Face’s son and smiled. “It’s a comfort to see my namesake growing up to be a fine young man like his father.”

Lost in his own thoughts, Michael suddenly looked up at Father O’Malley and grinned.

“Ten years ago, it was a comfort to me that Templeton’s last words were the Lord’s Prayer. Each year, I end the service with that prayer, as I will today. Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name….”

BA’s mind wandered, looking around at those in attendance. Everyone was here, save two. One was in the VA psych ward. BA shook his head sadly. The other had never missed this service. BA wondered if he should be worried.

He thought about where their lives had taken them. Ray Brenner moved back to Barlow Creek as planned, but BA settled in LA to be closer to Face’s son, among other reasons. He was glad. At 16, Michael was a fine boy. BA smiled as he saw Kaitlin Smith move close to Michael, who put his arm around her. Michael treated her as a little sister; he would do anything to protect her.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, go in peace; this service has ended.”

BA went over to speak with Ray and Trish, who he rarely saw after they had Johnna. Their daughter was five and thankfully was the spitting image of Trish. Johnna ran over to give Kaitlin and Michael big hugs. He felt someone touch his arm and looked down to see Leslie, who pulled him aside.

“I know I say this every year, but Michael loves spending time with the kids at your youth center. He says they’re ‘real’,” Leslie laughed, “So I guess the people we hang out with are ‘fake’.” BA smiled. He enjoyed it as well.

“Hey, listen up,” Ray got everyone’s attention. “Anyone who’s going over to the VA to talk to Dr. Richter should get over there soon. Meeting is in an hour.” BA knew ‘anyone’ was really ‘everyone’ but Ray didn’t like to push. They had been through doctor after doctor at that place, and no one had made any difference. Richter said he had some “new information.” No one had high hopes. It was too painful when they were let down. Maybe if Father O’Malley said a prayer…

December 12, 1981, VA Hospital Psychiatric Ward, Los Angeles

Dr. Richter’s office was too small for a meeting of this size, so a nurse ushered them into a conference room down the hall. Ray looked around anxiously for their missing teammate but instead, Dr. Richter entered the room alone.

“Hello everyone,” he greeted warmly. “My name is Dr. Richter and I’m a specialist in combat related post-traumatic stress, a relatively new field.”

They all knew who he was. But they patiently endured the formalities, waiting for the report they’d come for.

“While post-traumatic stress, formerly called ‘shell shock’ has been around for as long as war has existed, treatment for the condition has been limited.”

A nurse came in, and apologized for interrupting. “Dr. Richter, Captain Murdock is here.” 

Dr. Richter smiled. “Please send him in.”

Murdock breezed in on high energy, as usual. “Sorry guys,” he said, remorseful, “Flying charter for these Hollywood types is good money, but when they throw a hissy fit, the world stops.”

Ray wasn’t the only one who breathed a sigh of relief. Murdock was their best chance of fully understanding the psychiatrist’s report, and for a few moments, it had looked like he would altogether miss the meeting. After two years in this place suffering from depression after the war, Murdock knew his way around psychiatrists and their language better than any of them.

“I’m glad you could make it here today,” Richter greeted calmly. “I know this anniversary is a sad day for you, so thank you for making time.”

If Richter expected a response, he didn’t get one. Instead, Murdock simply sat down next to Maggie. It must be hard for her, Ray thought. There was never any closure with this sort of thing. If Hannibal had died out there in the jungle, it would be over for him - and her. Not that Ray would’ve wished that on either of them. But the current reality wasn’t much better. Stripped of his mind, for all intents and purposes, Hannibal was a walking, breathing dead man. In the years since the Army had found him in the jungle, he’d been solely fixated on his team, dead and rotting in the jungle. The fact that they were alive - all except Face, a wound that would never fully heal for any of them - never even registered no matter how many times they visited. He stared at them, and at Maggie, as if he’d never seen any of them before.

They listened as Richter explained what they already knew. Then they listened to the first glimmer of hope they’d heard in a long time. Hannibal was speaking. He still hated the light, and screamed whenever anyone but his daughter entered the room, but through simple questions and answers, Richter had uncovered the truth about what was going on in his mind.

“He believes he is with you,” Richter said simply, “With all of you and Lieutenant Peck, in a world where you all survived the war, and - best I can tell - became a sort of do-good mercenary team, helping the less fortunate. He chooses to live in this reality rather than to come back to our reality, which is, of course, far more painful for him.”

As the words settled, Ray stared at the doctor as if he had crawled out from under the ground right in front of them.

Maggie spoke first. “Are you saying... that my husband chooses to be like this?” 

Richter sighed deeply. “Modern Psychiatry functions on the presumption that the patient is both _capable of_ and _desires to_ get well. This world he has created in his mind - from bits of his own past, things people have said to him, a general fantasy where everything works out for good in the end - is preferable to the reality of the situation.”

Richter continued to speak, but Ray heard only snippets. Maggie asked about her place in Hannibal’s world, and sobbed at the response. BA drew out more of the story about their amazing escapades in Vietnam - robbing a bank, under orders - and Ray discovered that in Hannibal’s world, he’d died heroically at the hands of some yokels in Barlow Creek.

Murdock, least surprised of all of them, asked about a prognosis. Ray didn’t need to hear the answer; there was none. Hannibal’s recovery was in his own hands. Eventually, perhaps he would want to join his family and friends in the real world. But for now, he had an endless supply of The Jazz, and that was all he needed. While painful life passed in real-time, Hannibal’s passed faster. The young Lieutenant Colonel now lived in 1987, successfully maneuvering his way through suicide missions with his team, all for the greater good and a promise of happily ever after.

In a way, Ray envied him.

END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: My original ending was more "fan fiction" where I very obviously tied up all the questions and loose ends, and there was more closure. However, a writer friend (who is really a pro) encouraged me to do a more "Sixth Sense" type ending where the reader has to think back on the story and figure out how all the clues fit together. Two other writer friends agreed with her assessment. However, I still love my original ending (I'm a sucker for a good cry) and another friend loved the original, so I'm going to add on my original ending next week for those who want to stick with the story a bit longer.


	8. Original ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, my (slightly revised) original ending. Unlike the published ending, this ties up all the loose ends and explains everything in detail. The epilogue gives some closure. 
> 
> As I was deciding whether to publish this or not, I realized something about myself. I like closure...A LOT. The ending as published might be more "professional" fiction wise, but it just did not have enough closure for me. After reading both, I'd love to know which ending the readers prefer so feel free to comment.
> 
> This picks up after the December 12, 1981 memorial service.

December 12, 1981, VA Hospital Psychiatric Ward, Los Angeles

Dr. Richter’s office was too small for a meeting of this size, so a nurse ushered them into a conference room down the hall. Ray looked around anxiously for their missing teammate as Dr. Richter entered the room.

“Hello everyone, my name is Dr. Richter. I’m a specialist in combat related post-traumatic stress, a relatively new field. While post-traumatic stress, formerly called ‘shell shock’ has been around for as long as war has existed, treatment for the condition has been limited.”

A nurse came in, and apologized for interrupting. “Dr. Richter, Captain Murdock is here.” 

Dr. Richter smiled. “Please send him in.”

Murdock breezed in on high energy, as usual. “Sorry guys,” he said, remorseful, “Flying charter for these Hollywood types is good money, but when they throw a hissy fit, the world stops.”

Ray wasn’t the only one who breathed a sigh of relief. Murdock was their best chance of fully understanding the psychiatrist’s report, and for a few moments, it had looked like he would altogether miss the meeting. After two years in this place suffering from depression after the war, Murdock knew his way around psychiatrists and their language better than any of them.

“I’m glad you could make it here today. I know it’s a sad day for you, so thank you for making time.” If Richter expected a response, he didn’t get one.

Murdock sat down next to Maggie. It must be hard for her. The Army found Hannibal in the jungle, his mind gone. He cried for Face, and moaned about leaving the bodies of his dead teammates in the jungle. The team couldn’t get through to him, and neither could Maggie.

Richter began to pace slowly, speaking as he walked. “You all know his history, but I want to be thorough,” Richter said tentatively. “Briefly, Colonel Smith suffered several traumas that caused severe post-traumatic stress. He retreated so far into his own mind that none of you could reach him.”

“Hey man, tell us something we don’t know.” BA showed his legendary impatience with redundancy.

Richter continued, undeterred. “He hates the light, and screams when anyone enters the room. The only exception is his daughter.” 

Ray smiled slightly. No one could explain why Hannibal allowed her to sit with him, why he stroked her hair, almost as if he knew her.

“Modern Psychiatry functions on the presumption that the patient is both _capable of_ and _desires to_ get well.” Richter paused as his audience processed. “The doctors who have previously treated Colonel Smith presumed a desire to recover. To that end, they medicated him, but that hampered communication.”

Ray looked around the room at an audience that was only half listening. Maggie stared at a far wall as Murdock and Leslie murmured a conversation. BA played with his gold and looked at the door several times as if contemplating flight. Ray felt bad for Richter, but they had been down this road so many times before.

“I’ve been treating Colonel Smith for over two years. The first thing I did was stop all his medication. That took several months.”

Silence came over the room as everyone suddenly focused. Maggie spoke first. “Why did you stop…?” Her eyes widened as the ramifications sunk in, then her gaze narrowed. “Are you saying that my husband chooses not to recover?” 

Murdock shook his head as he popped up on his chair, shifting from one leg to the next. “I don’t understand. What…why would he choose to stay in that state?”

Richter put up a hand. “Please. Once the medication left his system, we began to communicate.”

Maggie stood suddenly and faced Richter, her voice raw. “Wait, he **spoke** to you??”

Murdock grabbed Maggie’s hand and gently pulled her back down to her seat as Richter continued.

“Please, Dr. Sullivan. Let me explain. At first, it was simple questions. Then a dialogue. Now I have gotten a full picture of where he believes he is.”

“And where _exactly_ is that Doc?” Murdock asked, his tone cynical. 

“With you,” Richter said simply, “With you and Lieutenant Peck, Sergeant Barracus, and occasionally with Captain Brenner.” Dead silence ensued.

Richter sighed deeply. “Colonel Smith has created an entire world in his mind. A world where none of you are dead.”

They stared at him with mouths agape.

Finally, Ray found his voice. “_Most_ of us are _not _dead,” Ray reminded Richter.

“Agreed, but one of you _is _dead, the one he loved like a son. Colonel Smith’s file says he feels directly responsible for Lt. Peck’s death.”

Ray nodded in understanding.

“Where I am exactly in this world Doctor?” Maggie asked as she pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them.

“Well, that’s a little bit of a story.” Richter had the look of a man navigating a minefield. 

“Oh really?” Maggie spat as her feet hit the floor hard. Murdock put a calming hand on her shoulder and was rewarded with a feeble smile.

“Please, I can explain everything. Let me start from the beginning. I have presumed that Colonel Smith used parts of his own past, your pasts, and your shared experiences to create this world. Perhaps you can help me put the pieces together.” For the first time, the audience seemed open.

“Some of this is assumption. I can only get so much out of him. Everyone suspected the war would end soon, but judging from his file, he lived for doing missions with his team. Would you agree?”

BA responded, smiling. “Yeah, man, he loved ‘The Jazz’.”

Richter returned the smile. “He’s mumbled the phrase. Normally it’s accompanied by a grin. I take it that’s a code word for danger?”

“It’s a bit more than that,” Ray tried to explain, happy at the thought of Hannibal grinning. “But basically, yes.”

Richter appeared ecstatic. The guys were starting to pay attention.

Murdock jumped up and asked questions in rapid fire succession. “Where is he in this world? What are we doing? Are we still together?” Richter put up his hand to staunch the flow as Murdock sat back down in his seat, still shifting.

“Captain, please. All valid questions. Colonel Smith’s mind has created a very complex set of circumstances that ensured you would not only be forced to stay together after the war, but also could do the types of missions you did during the war. My first question: Is there a reason why he would separate Captain Brenner from the rest of the group?” The team exchanged glances.

“Well,” Ray said thoughtfully, “I was supposed to go home in January 1972. We got taken by the Pathet Lao just before then. He knew I wanted to go home to Trish in Barlow Creek and work my in-law’s farm. I wasn’t in his…world?” On his face, Ray saw the pieces started to come together for Richter.

“You flit in and out, visits and such, but in his world, you die heroically in 1983, killed trying to stop a bunch of thugs who terrorized Barlow Creek. Your former team, ‘The A-Team’ as they are known, go to your funeral and bring them to justice.”

Glances passed between them, brows furrowed. The current year was 1981. Richter seemed to anticipate their confusion.

“Time passes differently for him than for us. In his mind, it is 1987. He doesn’t experience the days and nights in the real world because he is in there. I know that is difficult to understand. Let me ask you a question. Does robbing the Bank of Hanoi ring a bell for any of you?” 

“Well, yes, actually,” Murdock said. “We were hanging out in the team room one evening before a drop about a year before we were captured. Glacier asked Face what he would do when the war was over. Face wanted to get Hannibal back for…” Murdock glanced furtively at Maggie, not knowing if Hannibal had told her that story, “…something he had asked Face to do on short notice. Face told us he was going to rob banks for a living. After we picked our jaws up off the floor, Face went on about how, if we robbed the Bank of Hanoi, no one could really pin it on us because, well, how could Americans get up to Hanoi?”

Leslie’s stared in shock. Murdock hurriedly gave the punchline.

“Then he said ‘Smile, you’re on Candid Camera’ and we all had a good laugh. We knew he was just goofing around.” Murdock's shoulders slumped as he looked at the floor. “He did that a lot. He was fun that way.” Maggie took his hand. “How does that fit in with his world, Doc?”

“In his mind, your last mission in Vietnam was to rob the Bank of Hanoi. The ground team was Colonel Smith, Lieutenant Peck, and Sergeant Barracus. Captain Murdock, you dropped them off and picked them up. When you returned to base, the Army arrested all but Captain Murdock. The Army had not sanctioned the mission, and the orders were blown up in a shelling along with Colonel Morrison. Before the court martial began, you escaped from Ft. Bragg and went on the lam.”

The shocked faces of Ray’s team mates mirrored his own horrified feelings. Given his team’s devotion to duty, this scenario would have crushed them had it been real.

Richter pressed. “In the meantime, you become a sort of do-good mercenary team who helps the less fortunate, people being harmed by bad elements, that sort of thing.”

“Hey man, in his mind, we doin’ vigilante stuff? That’s not Hannibal. Don’t make no sense,” BA said shaking his head.

“Given his “back story”, it does,” Richter replied.

“Of course,” Ray said in sudden understanding. “It makes sense. How else could a team of commandos operate in normal society?”

“Exactly!” Richter said, obviously excited. “Captain Murdock stayed in the VA psychiatric ward voluntarily so you could have a fixed point of contact for people trying to get help.”

Murdock grinned broadly. “Wow! I should get a medal for that, people! I mean, putting myself on the line for my guys. I’m the best!” The comic relief came at the right time; this was all too surreal.

“Yes, Captain, I heartily agree,” Richter said smiling, then became serious. “Psychologically, you being in the VA is likely his subconscious acknowledgement of his own situation. You’re his substitute at the VA.”

Murdock appeared pensive. “Mentally, I struggled during the war, especially after we were captured, so I guess I’m the logical candidate.”

Richter nodded. “In his mind, Colonel Smith has created years of missions where you help people. Maybe they came from his own past, or from things people have said to him. I don’t really know.”

Maggie had been quiet, but Ray knew this hurt. She _was_ here in the real world, and Hannibal wanted to be anywhere but. Richter seemed to sense this.

“Dr. Sullivan,” Richter said softly, “Your husband thinks about you all the time. I can tell you that for certain.”

Maggie reacted with bile, her fists tightly balled. “Sure, that’s why I’m absolutely nowhere in his little creation.”

“He wants to isolate the team around him. For instance, in his world, Lieutenant Peck never married Leslie Bectall. She became a nun in some South American republic. It’s not that Colonel Smith has anything against Mrs. Peck. But their marriage would split Lt. Peck off from the team.”

“Am I in there at all?” Maggie looked up at the ceiling, fighting tears.

“Yes. About ten years into ‘his world’ Sergeant Barracus was badly injured and they stop in the closest town, called Bad Rock, to get help from the local doctor.”

Maggie’s head snapped up. “I grew up in Bad Rock,” she said.

“Yes, well you and he have a romantic encounter,” Richter said avoiding her gaze.

“Is that the only time?” Maggie asked, her tone edgy.

“No, you also helped him when a group of mercenaries tried to pick off the team one at a time and they poisoned him. Actually, it was at that point I realized he was starting to let you in more often. After that, he ‘sees you’ in Bad Rock every so often.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m in there somewhere.”

“You know, Dr. Sullivan, I record him when he sleeps, to see if anything from his subconscious slips out. He says your name almost every night. I’m willing to wager he’s dreaming about you. But if he allows you into his conscious world, you separate him from the team.” Maggie nodded, somewhat mollified.

Murdock obviously liked Dr. Richter and what he had to say, but there were still questions. “This is great information, Doc, but how does it facilitate his recovery?”

Richter smiled. “Right now, he seems to be coming to the end of his fantasies. Before I respond, have any of you heard of a man named Stockwell?”

Maggie shivered. “The day we got married,” she said softly, “there was a man at the restaurant. He looked at Hannibal almost as if he wanted to own him. It terrified me. His name was General Stockwell.” 

Richter seemed pleased. “Right now, in his world, Stockwell has maneuvered you, the team, into a situation where you have been tried and convicted, not only for treason and robbery, but also the murder of Colonel Morrison.” The room erupted and Richter put his hand up to quell the noise.

“Remember, this is his imagination. In his mind, Stockwell uses the convictions to ‘acquire’ your services on a specified number of suicide missions, after which you’ll get presidential pardons. Hypothetically, once you get those, you would be free to separate and live your own lives.” Ray could see the logical conclusion of this information run through their minds.

Murdock finally spoke. “Then that’s good, right? If the missions are ending, maybe he is ready to come out?”

“I think so too,” Richter confirmed, “and I’ll need all of you to help me.” The room erupted again as everyone agreed, hugged, and asked what they could do.

Richter outlined his plan, which included getting Hannibal accustomed to light, and of course, his friends and family. When finished, Richter asked “So what do you think of the plan?”

“Well,” Murdock said grinning, “I think it’ll come together nicely.”

Epilogue

December 12, 1983, St. Theresa’s Cemetery, LA

His team and his family had been doing this for 12 years but this was his first memorial. Since he had slowly come back to the world, Hannibal had pushed the guilt about Face’s death aside, replacing it with that of abandoning his wife and daughter for more than 10 years. The pain and loss of Face’s death and losing his team made him hide away from those he loved.

Maggie and Kaitlin forgave him, although that was a slow process. Dr. Richter helped them learn how to be a family. Hannibal considered him part of the team now too.

As Father O’Malley said the Our Father to close the service, Hannibal so clearly saw Face standing in that camp, saying the same prayer, knowing he was about to die. He shuddered at the memory. Maggie moved closer and took his arm.

The service ended and most of the attendees drifted away to talk and share memories. Hannibal knelt by the grave, and briefly touched the headstone. Carved into it was an American Flag and the logo of Special Forces, one in each corner. Between them and slightly lower was a cross. Face never talked about his faith, but Hannibal always knew it was a part of him.

The stone read:

Templeton “Faceman” Peck

1945 – 1971

Loving husband and father

Devoted teammate and friend

Brave soldier

He gave up his life for his country and his friends.

He will never be forgotten.

Hannibal had so much to say, he didn’t know where to begin.

“Face, I’m so sorry. I let you down. I let all of you down. Everything I did in that camp led to your death. I wish I could change that. I dishonored your memory by disappearing into myself, not taking care of the team, or your family. I wish I could change that too. I hope you can forgive me.”

A breeze rustled the trees. If Hannibal was a religious man, he would have sworn he felt Face’s hand on his shoulder. Suddenly, Ray knelt beside him, then BA, then Murdock. Hannibal realized this was the first time they were all here together, kneeling by their friend’s grave. It almost felt like…closure. He wondered if they felt it too. They bent their heads in honor of their fallen comrade. Then they stood and shook hands, an understanding passed between them that they would be together always, no matter where their lives took them. For Hannibal, that was finally enough.


End file.
